


Emotion Prompts

by ThatFeanorian



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff, Found Family, I'll add more to this once I figure out what tags are, M/M, Post Thangorodrim, Russingon, Sort Of, breaking friendships, but you know what, curufin and celegorm are bad brothers, in the end they all love eachother, kidnap family, sometimes, tumblr prompts that turned out longer than expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatFeanorian/pseuds/ThatFeanorian
Summary: a series of emotion-related silmarillion prompts from my tumblr, all of which became longer/better than expected.
Relationships: Caranthir | Morifinwë & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Finrod Felegund | Findaráto, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Fëanor | Curufinwë, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë, Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maedhros | Maitimo, Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maglor | Makalaurë, Elrond Peredhel & Maedhros | Maitimo, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maedhros | Maitimo, Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maglor | Makalaurë, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Finwë, Idril Celebrindal & Turgon of Gondolin, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. I didn't ask you to do that

**Author's Note:**

> if you are interested in hearing more, feel free to go to my tumblr @thatfeanorian, and ask me for a short story. The current set of prompts can be found below. <3
> 
> https://thatfeanorian.tumblr.com/post/625878921502687232/%EF%BD%85%EF%BD%8D%EF%BD%8F%EF%BD%94%EF%BD%89%EF%BD%8F%EF%BD%8E%EF%BD%81%EF%BD%8C-%EF%BD%90%EF%BD%92%EF%BD%8F%EF%BD%8D%EF%BD%90%EF%BD%94%EF%BD%93

“I didn’t ask you to do that! I didn’t ask you to run after me and play the hero! I didn’t want my life to be saved, Finno. I’m ruined. I just wanted to die.” Maedhros’s voice breaks and he slumps back into the pillows of the bed, bringing his remaining hand up to gesture at his own body,

“I wish… I wish you’d left this whole mess right where you found it or let me finally escape.” There is a heartbeat of silence and then Maedhros looks up with a twisted smile,

“It’s funny, isn’t it? I used to be called ‘Maitimo’ but now I’m broken and ugly beyond repair. No one needs that.” Fingon feels like his tongue has swollen up to fill every inch of space in his throat, leaving him gagging for air because this is wrong. This is not the Maedhros who he remembers, confident and playful and flirting, always so sure of himself, destined to be a leader. Maedhros is small, curved in on himself with pain and lack of muscle, barely able to keep himself upright. There is so much hatred in his voice, not hatred of Fingon, no, but hatred of himself. Fingon’s whole world is crashing down with the words coming out of his mouth, every hope he has built himself shattering into a hundred pieces until--

“Nelyo!” he sobs, climbing onto the bed next to Maedhros and nearly crushing his cousin in his arms,

“Nelyo I hate you so much. Forever. I hate you and I wish you were well so that I could punch you. I need you forever. Please don’t go away, I couldn’t bear it.” Maedhros is frozen in his arms, most likely unable to move beneath Fingon’s onslaught of affection, yet he cannot stop,

“You are never, never, never broken, I swear. I need you. I want you. Please don’t say --don’t say you want to leave me.” The last words come out as a whisper, barely audible even in the silence of the healing room, and he quickly pulls away from Maedhros, scared of hurting him more than he already is; not a square inch of skin is left completely unbandaged, and the hints of skin that you can see are reddened by burns or bruised. He doesn’t even realize that Maedhros’s arm had come up to wrap back around him until it falls back to the bed, nearly weightless in it’s emaciated form. His remaining hand grasps uselessly at the air, the effort of reaching up for Fingon’s finger’s too much, and Fingon has to keep himself from diving right back in for another hug, instead, curling into his cousin’s side and gently reaching behind himself for Maedhros’ pale trembling hand.

“Nelyo, Please.” His voice is so pathetically pleading, “Please don’t do that to yourself. You are enough for me. You always will be.” It is not enough, not enough at all, and he can see it in Maedhros’s eyes as his cousin relaxes against him, nuzzling effortfully against his chest. But it will have to be enough because Fingon is not sure if there is anyone else for whom Maedhros will still be perfect. 

“I wish,” Maedhros responds as if reading Fingon’s mind, “That the same could be said for the rest of Arda. Unlike you, the rest of our people are not so accepting of… failure and brokenness.”

“You are neither!” Fingon protests fiercely, but Maedhros presses a finger to his lips,

“I lack…. Oh, there is so much I am missing now. My mind, my hope, my hand… it is all gone. One can not be a leader when one’s mind is poisoned by loss and the void.” It hurts to hear him talk like this, and Fingon can FEEL him, so close, their minds brushing through the bond of their marriage. He is not poisoned, not broken, and yet Fingon cannot bring himself to reach out and prove it. 

The mind is Maedhros’s last sanctuary. It should not be accessed now without his approval. The silence hangs heavy in the air, and Fingon is vaguely aware of various self-deprecating thoughts stewing in Maedhros’s mind, slowly building into a storm. Leaning over, he brushes his lips against miraculously clear patch of Maedhros’s skin, a few centimetres of perfect unblemished smoothness that Fingon feels no qualms using to convey all of the vast love inside of him. It is not enough, not nearly enough, but it has to be because there is no other way. 

Fingon promises himself that if nothing else, he will endeavour to prove himself enough for Maedhros and to prove that Maedhros is, in turn, enough for him. In his arms, Maedhros drags himself a few inches closer to Fingon, whispering roughly, 

“Please sing to me, it keeps the shadows away.” Tears prick at Fingon’s eyes as somewhere in his vision, a memory surfaces.

Maedhros hugs Fingon tightly to his chest, the light of Telperion above them, and he is humming a song about the renewal of light and growth and love and the world is still for a moment, silent as if watching and listening to the perfection that is holding him safe in its arms.

“I will sing to you forever,” He whispers, “And if you want me to sing beyond, I will do it.”


	2. Get away from me

“Get away from me!” the words burst from Elros’s lips before he has any chance to stop them, flying out into the space between him and The Fëanorian. Elros’s eyes widen in fear and he shrinks backwards against his chair as The Fëanorian’s eyes grow dangerously bright, filling with fire the same colour as his hair. 

“You do not want my help?” He asks, deadly quiet, “Fine. I shall tell you, then, what your future holds. That cut on your leg will be infected within the hour. It will grow red and inflamed and hurt so badly that you will be unable to walk on it. Then the infection will spread from your leg to the rest of your body, slowly taking over as you die a long and painful death.

“You do not want me near you? Very well, you have determined your future.” He sweeps away, leaving Elros with shaking hands and a new curse condemning him to death. Elros had no idea that elves were capable of making such awful things happen to each other, but as he places his trembling fingers onto the still-bleeding wound he feels as if already it has swelled bigger from what it was before. Tears tumble from his eyes and he curls into a tight ball on the chair because Elrond shouldn’t have to see his cry, Elrond should at least be able to pretend he is strong so that they can stay together.

Soft fingers the same size and shape as his own gently touch a spot next to the cut and Elros flinches away from them.

“Does it hurt?” Elrond whispers and Elros shakes his head, refusing to admit the obvious. 

“I can get Maglor if you want to ‘Ros, I bet he can fix it or….” He trails off as Elros shakes his head vehemently, looking up to glare at Elrond,

“No! Don’t you get it? He’s one of them! He’s just like The Fëanorian. He probably helped curse me! They --they probably want me dead anyway. He sniffs, shivering uncontrollably, terrified and hurt and alone. Elrond cannot help him. He is not big yet and he does not know to change the future any more than Elros does. Elrond’s hand retreats and ELros knows, even though he has pressed his face into his knees, that his brother has left the room. 

Elros wants to disappear. His leg hurts and now Elrond is gone too and no one can save him and --Maglor appears in the doorway holding Elrond’s hand. Upon seeing Elros, Maglor hurries forwards, face a perfect mask of concern, but Elros knows that this is also Maglor’s fault, his future death, this curse (however they have managed to do it) and he flinches away, terrified. Maglor freezes for a second, then proceeds more slowly, asking gently,

“Elros? May I see what is hurting you?” His voice is soft and melodic as he hesitantly wraps his arms around Elros.

“No!” Elros angrily replies, refusing to be drawn in by the act and so so scared that this disobedience will cause only more curses and death, “I’m already going to die, that is already happening, why do you want to see?” He clasps his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

“Preferably to stop you from dying and to stop it from hurting.” Something about Maglor’s voice, in combination with the warmth and comfort of his arms, makes Elros want to crumble into them, to cry and admit that he has no idea what to do and he is alone and scared. There is so much strength and knowledge in those arms, surely Maglor might know what to do… how to fix it… but he is just like The Fëanorian. 

You don’t want to stop that. He said I was going to die slowly and he cursed me and he didn’t care!” Without Elros’s knowing consent the words he promised himself would not come out are now tumbling forth into reality, the whole story and how frightened he is. Maglor’s arms tighten around him and leave him in a cocoon of warmth that feels better than anything he has had in the last year. Word by word he explains everything, the jumble of sound halting and tearful, but Maglor does not stop him nor judge simply sits there humming softly and rocking Elros back and forth in his arms. By the time the words are finished coming, Elros feels like no more than a rag doll in Maglor’s arms, clutching desperately to his neck like a lifeline.

“I promise, Elros, my brother did not curse you. None of Eru’s children has this power unless it is Morgoth himself. He meant to heal you, I am sure. No harm will ever be intended from either myself or him. Will you let me take a look now?” Elros hesitantly nods and with quick, careful fingers Maglor examines it, the tune of his humming changing slightly before he removes his hand and gives Elros a small smile.

“I believe it should feel a little better now, and I apologise if my brother scared you. He did not mean it.” Maglor gives a large sigh, releasing him so that he can see Elrond and Elros both. 

“For now, at the very least, I want you to have a home here. You two don’t have to look to anyone here as parents, it is safer if you do not. This said you should know that you will be safe and healthy and cared for under our protection. This is my oath to the two of you.” He opens his mouth as if to say more, but then simply stands and exits the room, leaving Elrond and Elros alone once again. Elros reaches down to touch his leg, but where his cut should be there is…. Nothing

It is gone. 

No one has ever done something like this for him before.


	3. I don't want to talk to you

“I don’t want to talk to you”

“That’s stupid, yes you do”

“Go away. I’m serious.”

“Okay... tomorrow then? I understand you need time to process-”

“Findaráto, I swear to... I never want to see you again. Stay away from me and my family.” Carnistir’s eyes are narrowed, his face blotchy with the combination of freckles and the maroon blush slowly creeping up his ears, but these are not the signs of anger Findaráto knows to look for, In anger, there is never a deadly quiet wobbling voice nor too-bright eyes pleading with him to do the opposite. 

“Carnistir...” He looks half-mad, his hair frizzy and flying in every direction but into the braids that are supposed to be holding them. 

“Who told you we can’t be friends anymore?” FIndaráto hates the pleading note creeping into his tone, so determined to believe that it is no truly Carnistir who is behind these words, Carnistir who is still the only one who can out-strategize him, Carnistor who laughed at Findaráto’s pathetic attempts to flirt with Amarië, who once got into a fight in the middle of the court because one of the lords commented on Findaráto’s "typical Vanyar” stupidity... no, Findaráto will not believe that Carnistir is capable of this.

“It’s not true,” he promises as Carnistir angrily opens his mouth, “I don’t care what your father thinks of mine, I value you as a person... as my friend.”

“I don’t... I don’t give a shit what you value Findaráto. You’re one of them, You would usurp my father’s place and I want no part of your treachery. Tyelkormo’s window is open, Findaráto notices, and a flash of rare anger slices through his mind,

“‘One of them,” Moryo, listen to yourself, that’s ridiculous. My father has no aspirations to have the throne and neither do I! You know that. I don’t understand why-”

“You’ve never understood a single Valar damned thing, that’s the problem Findo. You don’t even know what loyalty is. Loyalty to your brothers, to the crown... I don’t ever want to see your stupid traitor face ever again. Get away from me. The window is open and Findaráto can see, even if Carnistir is blinded by the furious tears that remain trapped within his eyes.

Blood. Loyalty. Unnumbered Tears. Findaráto’s heart is pounding as he looks wildly around, but there is nothing but the Fëanárions’ garden and the silver light of Telperion. The tears turning Carnistir’s eyes over-bright are stained red by the crystals lighting the garden. Findaráto turns and walks away, no longer caring that behind him he can hear the window shut and the sound of his cousins partially suppressed sobs.

Pausing at the garden gate, Findaráto looks back at Carnistir where he has slumped backwards on the bench, fists clenched in real anger now, and he sees again. The reddish crystals cast an evil light over the garden and through the window he can see Curufinwë’s face glaring down at him.

“Carnistir, I won’t stop caring for you, you know,” he calls back, then hurries through the gate. Still, behind him he can hear the crack of knuckles on stone, the grunt of pain, and Carnistir’s growled,

“Leave, you worthless traitor.”


End file.
